Birth Story: A Lesson in Control and Healing

Two years ago on March 5th my water broke — 8 weeks early. 

I ended up in the hospital from March 5 to March 23, the day before my birthday. It was a hard time in my life, a hard time in my family’s life. These trying weeks were a difficult lesson in control; while we can research, plan and have an outcome in mind, higher powers sometimes have other things in store for us. I apparently needed to be shown again that sometimes things are out of our control and to trust the process.

It’s taken me these past two years to come to terms with what happened, to reflect on the events and heal not only physically but mentally from the traumas that occurred. It might sound like a long time to come to terms with something like this, but the first year, I was sort of living in survival mode raising a toddler and preemie newborn after having a major surgery. This isn’t a woe is me story, I know many people have gone through much worse. This is my birth story, raw and real with my inner thoughts, worries and frustrations. I’ve grown a lot from the events that transpired during and after my hospital stay. 2019 was a beast of a year, testing me on many levels, but here I am stronger now than I was then. That’s life, right? Going through hardships, learning and growing, but that doesn’t mean the process is easy by any means.

Perhaps the way we heal from a past trauma is by collecting all the thoughts and emotions surrounding it and boldly expelling it from our being, to make it tangible by writing in a journal, or embracing vulnerability by sharing it with others. Allowing traumas to sit within and fester leads to deeper, long term issues. We don’t deserve to be manipulated by past trauma. 

It must be released, to be seen — raw and real. 

Only then can you be free to move on. 

To do that myself, I am sharing my birth story in honor of my daughter Rowen’s 2nd birthday. I’m certain I unintentionally left out some major and minor details, but given the state I was in at times, and the time that has passed, parts of this were difficult to remember.

March 5, 2019

I woke up to wet sheets. Confused, I felt around. My underwear was wet too. There was this one time in college during my angry, self destructive years where in a drunken delusion I almost peed in the corner of my room thinking it was the toilet. Other than that disaster of an evening, I can’t remember the last time I came close to peeing in the bed.

My 2.5 year old leans over from her side of the bed and looks at me lovingly with her warm, bright eyes. “Baby’s coming.” She said without hesitation, before I even spoke aloud what was going on.

This can’t be, I think to myself. I have 8 weeks left in this pregnancy. “Baby better not be coming yet.” I snap back to the sweet big sister to be.

I roll myself out of bed, belly protruding. It’s getting harder each week to get myself out of the bed with this growing belly. It is big but still has a way to go. Making my way to the bathroom to attempt to empty my bladder, I feel the warm liquid continuing to slowly leak between my legs. Shit, my water broke.

I researched so much more for this birth after ending up in the hospital during my first unmedicated home birth, but it never crossed my mind to read about pre-mature birth. 

I call my midwife in a slight panic while trying to remain calm. “Come over as soon as you can.” She says. We pack up Maisie, I stuff a towel in my pants and we drive the 30 minutes to our midwife, Katie.

I wasn’t having any contractions, and thankfully the test came back negative for amniotic fluid. The best thing to do at the time was wait to see what happens while remaining on bed rest for the day.

We drop Maisie off at childcare, I call out of work, and we make our way home.

Isaac is so caring and waits on me hand and foot, bringing me snacks, drinks, and whatever else I need. We binge watched Netflix to try to keep our minds off what was happening. Though had I known what was coming, I would have been preparing and writing a list of necessities, researching premature deliveries and being present with what was happening. Hindsight and all that, right?

The end of the day is approaching, Isaac is getting ready to pick Maisie up from daycare. I stand up and tell Isaac we need to go to the hospital. The midwife had told us to go if the situation didn’t get better by the end of the day; and it didn’t. I took another test which revealed it was in fact amniotic fluid leaking.

We call Isaac’s parents to pick up Maisie for the night, thinking I would see her again in the morning, baby sister in my arms, I give her a big hug and kiss, said, “I love you, see you soon.”

But I didn’t see her soon. In fact, over the next ~4 weeks, I was only able to see her, to hug her, to kiss her and be there for her 2 times. She went to sleeping next to me in bed all 2.5 years of her life to not seeing her mama for ~4 weeks. It was heart breaking.

Things are a bit fuzzy at this point.

I am rushed around being pulled here and there, seeing different nurses and doctors, texting with my midwife. It is chaos.

I’m sitting on a patient table, squirming a bit in an attempt to get comfortable. The abrasive disposable paper underneath me crinkles and slides around. The nurse places her cold hands on my inner knees and spreads my legs as she penetrates me with a cold foreign object to check to see if my uterus is opening, she tells me I need a steroid shot and antibiotics right away.

Of course I fight this recommendation. Having not done any research on the steroid shot I didn’t want it because I wasn’t given full disclosure on it. After being heavily persuaded I gave in. “It’s what’s best for your baby.” I was told. To this day I haven’t looked up this product, it’s ingredients or side effects mostly because I’m afraid I’ll read what I was injected with and will live with regret. But maybe it did help, I’ll never know. I do however wish I held off on taking the antibiotics. I was pumped full of them for what felt like the whole 4 weeks. They insisted I needed them to ward off any infection that may arise from my bag of waters being broken since we chose to hold off on labor induction until the last possible minute. Maybe if she hadn’t stuck a foreign instrument up into my cervix, there wouldn’t have been any risk of exposure to bacteria and infection. This is exactly why it’s so important to be your own advocate, to know what you’re getting into and to have information on as many angles as possible. I know these doctors only wanted what was best for me and the baby, but I also know that antibiotics are incredibly hard on the body and I wasn’t sure what the side effects on an unborn child were. I could have easily just taken colloidal silver instead. I absolutely hated being in this position of ignorance.

Since it was confirmed that my water did break, I had to be transported to another hospital, one with a solid NICU unit and could handle premature babies.

I am loaded up onto a gurney and put into the ambulance with all sorts of gadgets attached to me to monitor my blood pressure, my pulse, the baby, and who knows what else.

It is an hour drive to Springfield, MA, but it feels intensely longer. I am trapped in a small space, alone with my thoughts and shallow conversation. The voices of the nurse and EMT fade out as my mind drifts elsewhere. I watch the headlights behind us from the ambulance window. Isaac is following behind.

We arrive at the hospital. 

It is late. 

I am exhausted.

My mascara is smeared down my face from crying, my nose red and swollen. The fluorescent lights are piercing, the humming of the bulbs irked me while I am being wheeled up to my room. I thank the ambulance drivers and the nurse who graciously traveled along with me. Part of me feels guilty for drifting internal and not participating in the small talk, but I didn’t have it in me.

The room is stark but large; it is a birthing suite. I am instantly greeted by the nurses on the floor, my vitals are taken yet again. I get into the bed and am attached to all sorts of devices, one to monitor the baby, one to monitor me, my temperature is taken, antibiotics are administered. 

My new reality is the nightmare I had envisioned, it is exactly the opposite of how I was planning this birth to be. It was to be at home, free moving, natural, dim lit... this is cold, bright and invasive.

I am interrupted every two hours or so throughout the night to get my vitals checked. The bright lights come on by surprise, the loud cart wheeled over to me, the nurse pulls out the thermometer and guides it toward my mouth without a word spoken. I quietly comply by sitting up and opening my mouth, allowing her to place it under my tongue. Pills are handed to me from a small paper cup. I always asked what they are just to be certain. At one point I reach a level of exhaustion and frustration enough to ask the nurse if she could leave me alone for a few hours so I could actually get some sleep.

The next morning I had a meeting with the doctors to go over the plan, to discuss the situation and get on the same page with what’s to come.

I am dreading this.

Over the next couple of weeks, I am woken up every few hours for vital checks, have daily meetings with the doctors and am working part time remotely for my job. I fill my spare time binge watching The Peaky Blinders, reading about herbs and trying to mentally prepare myself for the coming weeks. The nurses gave me the “ok” to move about the room finally. I try different techniques to turn this breech baby head down.

The medical team and I came to an agreement to put off any sort of induction until at least 34 weeks unless something happens. I request an external cephalic version, but am denied since the baby didn’t have adequate waters surrounding her. They are afraid moving her with that amount of manual force could cause more problems. I had this procedure with my first baby. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life to this point, second only to having an unmedicated birth but I was hopeful we’d be able to do it again to turn the baby head down and avoid a cesarean. We discussed a natural birth in breech position but the doctors were certain it would end in tragedy. “If the baby takes too long to come out, your uterus will close around her head, and we will have to cut your uterus to save her but she will most likely suffer.” That was told to me often. They also admitted they were not trained in breech births and did not feel comfortable with that decision.

After much deliberation, anger, tears and resentment we made the agreement that the baby will enter the world via c-section. I am heartbroken. They will not consider “seeding” after the procedure. I have to pick my battles carefully. After a few conversations of them telling me there aren’t any benefits and they hadn’t done it before I moved on. Next, we discussed vaccinations. I mentioned we would be holding off on the vitamin k and hep b shots as well as the eye ointment. The doctor is not thrilled about this and insists that the baby at least needs the vitamin K shot. I learned my lesson with my first child and told her we will be holding off.

During these discussions, I made the request that if the baby ends up in the NICU and has to be fed there before my milk comes in I would like her to have donor milk and am not comfortable giving her formula. I am denied. The Director of Pediatrics quickly let’s me know that since the cut off age is 34 weeks for donor milk, and the baby would most likely be born at 34 weeks, she misses the cut off. I made my case and asked for them to reconsider or I’d have someone bring me donor milk for her, which is apparently against hospital policy. The Director slyly said to me, “we will give your baby donor breast milk if you agree to giving her the vitamin k shot.” I paused for a moment to compose myself and said to her firmly that we will be holding off on the vitamin k shot and they will be giving her donor milk until my milk comes in. Two days later they agree to my terms.

It’s astounding how defensive doctors get when you question the drugs, procedures and recommendations they push. It’s as though other patients don’t question anything or advocate for themselves, simply allowing someone else to make decisions about their body without hesitation.

I can tell that every doctor who visits me for consultations views me as a nuisance. One doctor rolled his eyes at me. Another pair chuckled to one another as though me asking to push off delivery to 36 weeks was an uneducated and absurd question. They told to provide them with studies on keeping a baby in the womb past the 34 week mark since they did not allow that in this specific hospital, nor in most US hospitals. It was the most frustrating, emotionally tolling 4 weeks — constantly having to advocate for myself, asking why on recommendations about specific procedures or medications, etc. After pushing to keep the baby en utero for an additional two weeks, the doctor came back and said he read the studies I provided him with and since it’s common practice in Europe to do it, they are willing to grant me another two weeks before the c-section if that’s what I want. I view this as a victory. I then had to weigh the pros and cons of staying in the hospital away from Maisie for an additional two weeks or just getting everything over with and going home as soon as possible. I made a decision that felt as right as it could, and I was pleasantly surprised with the validation I received. 

The days and nights drag on. I miss Isaac and Maisie so much it hurts. I was about an hour and a half away from home. We talked on the phone but it wasn’t the same. We use FaceTime a few times but each call ends in tears with Maisie having a breakdown asking me to come home. It is crushing.

At one point she ends up with a fever. It kills me to be away from her unable to support her like I’ve always done before. She used to get terrible respiratory illnesses that needed a lot of extra support including a nebulizer. Thankfully this time it is just a fever. Until this event, Maisie hadn’t been away from me for more than about 9 hours max, she slept next to me in the same bed most of her life. Luckily Isaac, his parents and my close friends are amazing and helped us get through these trying times. Maisie got to sleep over at her grandparents house for the first time, she loved it, while she and Isaac had been given the opportunity for some quality bonding time.

I checked into the hospital the beginning of March, at this time children under the age of 12 were not allowed to visit due to flu restrictions since I was in the same building as the NICU. Maisie came to visit maybe 2 times which was needed, but emotionally taxing for us both. We had to visit on the main floor in the waiting room. My nurse was wonderful and arranged for us to visit in an empty meeting room the next time. 

At this time, Maisie is 2.5 and can’t quite understand what is going on. We play, snuggle, and talk. She sits in my lap touching with the IV site on my bruised hand in curiosity, while kissing it because she says it looks like it hurts. I’m wheelchair bound, getting up from time to time to draw on the white board with her. It’s getting late. Isaac and Maisie have an hour and a half drive back — he still needs to cook dinner, and get her ready for bed since he has work in the morning. Maisie’s disposition changes from happy to sad and confused asking why I can’t come home, and where her baby sister is. She leaves in tears, I kiss Isaac goodbye, and erupt into tears when I get back to my room. 

The next day I make my way down to the gift shop and find the sweetest little orange kitty stuffed animal. I know Maisie will love this the next time I see her. His name is Cobbler…. He ended up staying with me for the duration of my hospital stay and is still a favorite “lovey” in the household.

During my hospital stay, I had a few visitors. My friend Susan stopped by while in the area with a thoughtful care package, which contained a meditative coloring book. I color a few pages in and send pictures of them to Isaac to show Maisie. My dad and step mom came up one day from Connecticut unexpectedly to say hi and show their support. While we were chatting about the circumstances, my Dad bursts out with, “maybe there’s a reason why your water broke early. Maybe there’s something wrong and your body knows it and is trying to get rid of them problem.” My step mom hits him in the shoulder without thought, “DREW! That’s not something you say to someone in this situation.” I could sense his mortification. While I changed the topic and shrugged off his words, later that night they infiltrated my thoughts, keeping me up all night wondering what was wrong with the baby or me. I am able to reign in my negative thoughts, calm myself down and visualize a healthy baby.

Isaac comes to visit as much as he can, bringing healthy snacks, coconut water, tea, and water from home. I am a water snob and cannot stand the taste of most water, and am always concerned with fluoridation. Hospital food, if you’ve never had it for an extended period, is awful. You’d think being a place of healing, their nutritionists would create menus and source quality food, but that’s not the case. Sadly they have a limited budget and the food is of low quality, containing lots of unnecessary synthetic ingredients. Every morning I call and order breakfast; scrambled eggs, toast and fruit. The eggs taste like they’re the pre-scrambled boxed variety, the jam for the toast is made up mostly of corn syrup, sugar and natural flavor. I do, however, enjoy the juice boxes. Each day there is a different option for lunch and dinner. I remember one of the soups being pretty decent, as well as the lasagna. I’m sure to some I sound like an ungrateful, pretentious snob, but I don’t care, at home I buy the highest quality food my family can afford. I don’t want my loved ones ingesting unnecessary chemicals, toxins and flavorings that can lead to health and gut issues down the road. Why does any person in the hospital or anywhere for that matter need artificially flavored and colored jell-o, or orange “cheese” on their meals? 

I’m finally learning to let go a bit and just take what comes at me. Control what I can, let go of the rest.

Shit food? Well at least I’m not going hungry.

Water tastes like dirty and chlorine? Well at least I am able to hydrate.

Nurse wakes me up every two hours? Well at least I am in a place that can handle my current situation and I have someone checking in on me.

Can’t see my family? At least I have medical professionals to make decisions with.

It’s March 16th.

I’ve been at the hospital for two weeks now. Something is off. I am having continual light cramping. Am I having contractions right now? I hold off saying anything, but then decide to bring it up with my nurse on my next vitals check. She tells me it’s nothing, but to let her know if anything progresses. 

My friend Lynda is coming up from New York for the weekend. My travel partner in crime aka Travels with Snacks. She shows up with lots of goodies, and a couple games to play. She is planning to stay the weekend after taking the train up from Manhattan, but the trip ended early when the human growing in my uterus decides it is her time to shine.

Lynda introduces me to the game Blockus. We laugh as always, eat snacks, talk through hard topics. She’s my sister, and always knows how to help me work through troubling times. She got me through some really tough times with my mom in the past. I am so grateful she is here.

During our Blockus game I start feeling some more cramping but ignore as long as I can. Am I seriously having contractions, I think to myself. I finally say it out loud that I was having them. We take a walk down to the cafeteria to see if it is just a fluke. They start getting stronger. She pushes me to call the nurse in and to let them know. I have a hard time walking back up to my room, having to stop for a second to deal with this cramping. Is this it? 

The nurse doesn’t believe I am going into labor. She tells me they are Braxton Hicks contractions. She leaves and said she will check back at a later time.

Lynda and I keep chatting and I mentioned the strangest part of this situation is having to decide what day my second daughter’s birthday would be. Taking the element of surprise and organic nature of natural delivery out of the question felt wrong. It isn’t my place to decide when she is born. Her due date was supposed to be April 27th or so but here we are deciding what day in March she’d be cut out and pulled from my body. 

I’m not sure how much time has passed but the contractions are becoming painful. 

The doctors come in to speak with me and it is decided that we’d move forward with the c-section soon. They suggested the next day, March 17th, but I didn’t want her living the rest of her life having her birthday on Saint Patrick’s day. I push for the following week if we can make it that long, but then she’d share a birthday with me. March 18th started to feel right, but I was worried about the residents being hungover for the surgery since it was the day after the biggest drunken day in the US.

The contractions are becoming unbearable… This is really happening, these aren’t Braxton Hicks, I am in labor. Today, March 16th is the day.

Isaac is an hour and a half away at work. Maisie is in childcare. I call him to let him know what is going on. I let him know that the baby is coming today. He better get here before this baby comes I am thinking to myself, I don’t want to do this alone. Lynda stays with me until Isaac gets to the hospital. I am beyond grateful. He closes down his food trailer, and leaves work making arrangements for Maisie. After packing a couple bags, he made the trip to Springfield, MA.

I spoke to the nurse at about 11 that morning, it is now 18:00, my contractions are torturous. I am in pain. Knowing I’d be having a c-section for the last week, I did not think I would have to undergo the excruciating pain of contractions as well. I had an unmediated birth with Maisie, and while I was looking forward to another natural birth, I was not necessarily looking forward to the amount of pain and sheer mental strength involved in birthing a child. But here I was, in a terrible amount of pain, being prepped for major surgery.

We call my midwife, Isaac arrives, Lynda heads back to New York.

From here until I was on the table was a blur. I am laying on the gurney, a new IV is shoved into my vein, the room fills up with doctors and residents. The doctor tells me that one of his resident students will be performing the surgery, not the doctor I had originally met and chatted with, but I am assured she has done several of these procedures before and he would be right there overseeing her work. A lesson in control….. it’s going to be ok I tell myself.

Isaac dresses in the scrubs the nurses give him — he looks good in scrubs, we share a good laugh about his current attire. He rips the booties as he attempts to put them over his shoes. I think to myself, what is the point of putting scrubs on now when he’s going to walk across this level into the operation room? Whatever.

It is now roughly 21:00, I wonder how dilated I am, breathe…. These contractions, wow….. why the FUCK am I not in surgery yet, I feel like I am going to have this baby naturally if we don’t get moving.

Finally I am brought into the operating room. I am sitting upright with an open back gown wincing in pain through each contraction while the anesthesiologist attempts to put a needle in my spine. The buzz of the fluorescent lights is amplified and feels like it’s burning a hole in my brain. HOLD ON NOT YET, I yell as my stomach hardens like a rock with a contraction…. Breathe, breathe, breathe, I squeeze Isaac’s hand. I feel a pinch in my back. The epidural is in. This will numb the lower half of my body for the c-section. Getting a needle put in my spine is not the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had, but all of a sudden all the agony from the contractions disappears. 

Finally, some relief.

Wait, I can’t move, 

I can’t feel anything,

I have no control. 

It is time....

The lights are bright and buzzing, the room is cold, I lie here naked on the table from the chest down surrounded by at least a dozen strangers. 

I am exposed

I am vulnerable

I am scared, but I have Isaac and Katie, my midwife here, and at least pain from the contractions are gone.

The anesthesiologist is at my head. He is an older gentleman, it seems he loves his job. He’s telling me jokes, trying to calm my mind. It works a little. Katie and Isaac are to my left. I can hear the medical team chattering about. 

The first incision is about to be made. My heart races, my mind goes to places it shouldn’t but I quickly pull it back. A battle is taking place in my mind, one that will continue throughout the surgery and rest of the week.

There is a lot of tugging, pushing and pulling going on, it’s harrowing. I’m told I should only feel pressure but this doesn’t feel like pressure. I can feel my organs being moved, I cringe and moan in pain. I’m trying to be strong but it hurts, it fucking hurts. The doctor asks me if I’m ok. I say I think I’m feeling too much, that it shouldn’t hurt like this. They continue on saying that I will feel pressure. The pain grows. 

The chronology gets murky here. There is chattering, people are moving about. I can’t see anything. I had asked for a clear curtain so I could see what was going on, but this one is solid, what is happening? I am one of those strange people who need to watch as a needle is entering my veins while blood is being drawn, or watch as my wound is stitched up. It kills me not seeing what is happening, but maybe it’s for the best. 

Time keeps passing.

The baby is out! They bring her over and place her on my chest. I am out of it. She’s breathing!! She’s beautiful... she’s so so tiny. Maisie was 8lbs 11oz and 21.5” — this little one is a peanut in comparison at just under 5 lbs and 17”. I am told they were able to do extended cord clamping, which I was pushing for. I am so relieved. Our first meet is cut short, so much for that beloved golden hour, but they need to keep her warm and make sure her vitals are ok. 

They pull her off my chest and take her from me, I can’t see her, can’t hear her, can’t touch her. 

They are putting my organs back in place. I am moaning in pain, this is torture. The doctor makes the decision to give me morphine. Oh thank god, relief. The feeling of people inside my body is bizarre; I feel my organs moving, my uterus being shoved back into its home. My thoughts are interrupted by Katie grabbing my hand and talking to me about baby names out of no where. I wonder why she brought this up so abruptly. I’ll later learn it’s because the resident hit an artery while putting me back together and I was hemorrhaging blood on the table. I had no idea. The drugs are hitting me… I feel weird. I am numb. 

I don’t remember anything else.

They were able to stop the hemorrhage, the procedure was finished and I was moved to post op. The baby was up in the NICU, much healthier than expected.

Hours later I wake up in my hospital room, it’s a different room than I’d been in before the surgery. It’s much smaller and has two beds. I haven’t the slightest clue what time it is. The baby was born around 10pm, I think it’s around 3am maybe? I feel a gush if warm liquid flowing from between my legs, it can’t be urine, I have a catheter.... I’m bleeding. Isaac is sleeping in the bed next to me. I wake him up to tell him I’m bleeding, I call the nurse’s desk.

“Hi, this is Kim, I think I’m bleeding.”

“Ok, we will come take a look, are you bleeding a lot?”

“I don’t think so, but am not sure I felt a big gush then it..... umm I’m feeling it again. It’s a lot.”

A nurse runs in to check on me, seeing the amount of blood she calls for a doctor. I hear the emergency code over the intercom system. Quickly there are about 5 people in the room working on me. I feel the blood spilling from my body.

I’m gushing blood, Isaac is holding my hand.

I’m terrified, and so tired.

I hear them say they can’t get the bleeding to stop.

Isaac is going to be left a single dad with two little girls to raise on his own.

Luckily his parents are amazing and only live 10 minutes away.

I didn’t have a proper goodbye with Maisie.

My second daughter won’t get to meet me.

I want to meet my second daughter.

I want to name her. What is her name?

I want to see these girls grow up together.

I want to have more adventures with Isaac.

I want to be around to see our grandchildren.

They’re sticking me with some sort of shot — right into my thigh, I wonder what it is.

I look at Isaac and tell him how much I love him. I pray silently for them to stop the bleeding. 

I’m oddly calm now as the medical team works furiously to find and stop the bleed. I’m tired. I just want to go to sleep. I just want to go to sleep. Let me go to sleep.

They stopped the bleeding.

I don’t remember anything else.

The nurse comes in and wakes me up to take vitals at some point. I’m barely conscious. I’m so tired, leave me alone, let me sleep.

I can’t keep my eyes open. What is she saying to me? I wonder how the baby is. When can I see her? Is she ok, does she know I love her? Does she know that she is loved? Is she comfortable?

I mumble some sort of response to the nurse. It is apparently incomprehensible. She draws my blood, checks my vitals and leaves. I fall back to sleep.

After the hemorrhage, the doctor needed to monitor the tone of my uterus. If it was soft and mushy, there could still be a bleed. The way they checked this is by having me lay on my back while they pushed their rigid fingers deep into my abdomen until they could feel if it was shrinking properly and if it was the proper tone. This was excruciating. As if I wasn’t in enough pain already having my abdominal muscles cut, organs moved around, baby pulled from my body and uterus shoved back in place. My abdomen was bruised beyond belief from having this done multiple times a day.

I don’t know how much time has gone by, but I’m told I need to try to walk to the bathroom and pee on my own. Just leave me alone, I want to sleep. Why can’t I be left alone to sleep!? I haven’t woken up naturally since I was checked in to the hospital. I’ve been woken up multiple times a day for the last 2 weeks.

They remove the catheter by pulling the tube out — that is an odd feeling...

Since I refused any medication stronger than ibuprofen, the tiniest movement is torturous. Why am I so stubborn? Why don’t I just take the strong pain killers? I’m not breastfeeding yet, but I will be pumping soon and I don’t want to give that to my baby. I feel like my abdomen is going to burst, shooting my organs out simultaneously. 

It takes a while, but I finally make it to a seated position. With help, I make it to my feet. I take two steps and am hit with a rush of heat, my head and face are tingling, I instantly start sweating, my vision is blurred. 

I’m going to pass out. 

I’m helped back into the bed. A new catheter is inserted, “we will try again tomorrow.”

I wake up in the middle of the night soaking wet with sweat and shaking uncontrollably. I am freezing. My body is clenched, I’m shivering beyond control and am in some of the worst pain of my life.

Make it stop.

Isaac helps me change my shirt. The nurse brings in some more blankets the heated ones are the best but the heat fades quickly. The violent shaking finally stops, I feel some relief from the pain and I’m able to fall back asleep.

NOTE: I’m pretty sure the chronology before and after the blood transfusions are off. I don’t remember much before the transfusions - the pumping and first visit may have taken place after the first transfusion.

I woke up again in a panic. “I need to pump. The baby needs breast milk.”

From this point, no matter how tired, how much pain I’m in, how much I don’t want to move, I pump, every two hours for 25 minutes.

It is painstaking. Nothing is coming out. My body hurts, getting to a seated position is nearly impossible. I probably need to eat; to drink. I pump again, nothing. I refuse to come to terms with feeding my child formula. I have just a few more days of donor milk left before I need to produce something for my baby. Maybe a visit will help.

With Isaac’s help, I manage to get myself into a wheelchair and am rolled down the hallway. We check into the NICU, wash our hands and make our way to baby’s spot. She’s so tiny, she’s so beautiful. She’s laying there by herself in a tiny little clear plastic crib with an IV attached to her. She is sleeping, and calm. I don’t know what day it is, I don’t know how long she’s been out of my body for. I feel guilty for not being with her this whole time. Is she lonely? I cry.

I cry because I’m grateful she is a warrior and came out of my body thriving.

I cry because I’m grateful all the medical issues happened with me and not her.

I cry because I’m helpless and can’t be with by her side.

I cry because I hope she feels loved and is comfortable.

I cry because I’m in so much pain and want to be there for her.

I cry from sheer exhaustion, I need to cut this visit short, I am too weak to be sitting upright and out of bed.

We return back to the room. My mom, sister and brother in law are waiting for me. SURPRISE!

They drove 7 hours from northern Maine to surprise me with a visit. I am a terrible host, I lay in bed hardly vocal, in pain, an emotional wreck with no energy but I still try to engage in conversation. I’m not sure how long they stayed. I’m grateful for the visit, but feel guilty they drove that far for such a lousy visit.

They leave, I fall asleep.

Mid dream, I’m woken up for a vitals check, “Your pulse is much too high; and your blood count is much too low. You’re going to need a blood transfusion.” The doctor said to me.

“No, no, no. I don’t need a blood transfusion, I’m just tired.” I replied.

“Your heart is working too hard to keep up, you’ve lost too much blood, you need a transfusion”. 

Who’s blood will I be getting? What sort of life did they lead before donating their blood? Did they get paid to donate their blood, or did they do it out of the kindness of their heart? Do they have diseases they don’t know about? Did they test the blood enough? What if the bag is mislabeled and they give me the wrong blood type? Will this change my inner workings? Will my DNA change? I don’t know anything about blood transfusions.

An abundance of questions flooded my mind. What if I have some sort of allergic reaction to the blood? I am grateful there is a blood bank, and that I am able to receive much needed blood, but it just didn’t feel right. After a difficult conversation with Isaac, I agreed to the transfusion, though still hesitant.

I sit there in my bed and watch as the red liquid slowly made its way through the clear tube. My heart drops as it approaches my vein. The foreign blood enters my arm. There are certain religions that do not take transfusions no matter what, even if it means they will die. While I don’t want to be sitting here injecting myself with alien blood, I want to live, I need to live and move on from this to be there for my children, to grow old with my husband. I’m told without the transfusion it will take about 6 months/weeks (?) for my body to create the amount of blood I’ve lost, I probably will not be able to breastfeed, and I will be extremely weak and easily exhausted, that it’s too hard on the heart and I should not check out with such little blood in my veins.

It takes about 4 hours for the bag to empty. I’m told my ghostly lips and face have some color in them again.

I finally start producing colostrum during pumping sessions. 

Later on my vitals are checked again, my pulse is still too high, and blood count too low…. “You might have an internal bleed, we have to run some more tests.” I am told I may need surgery again to close up an internal bleed and cannot wrap my head around going back under the knife, being cut open again and stitched back up. What if they hit another artery? What if I don’t come out of this next surgery?

I can’t remember if I had a cat scan or an MRI, but I had to drink some nuclear looking liquid against my better judgement. I don’t want it. I am told it will not pass through to breastmilk…. I don’t believe them, but drink it anyway — or maybe it was injected, I can’t recall now. I was helped onto my back and into a machine. When the procedure was complete, I could not get back up. The bed didn’t transition to a seated position like my hospital room bed. I’m going to be stuck here, just let me lay here for a while, it’s fine. But the nurses help me up and I am wheeled back to my room.

My vitals are checked again, the doctor comes in later on to tell me the results of the procedure. Thankfully there wasn’t an internal bleed that they could see, but they will continue to monitor the issue since my levels should be higher. With that, they decided I needed another transfusion since my blood levels were still too low. 

The next transfusion came and went. I am starting to build up a little more strength each day, even just figuring out how to get to a seated position is a huge win. I am finally able to get out of the bed and walk to the bathroom. An incredible amount of mental focus is needed to get through the pain involved in getting up to go to the bathroom and back to the bed, but it’s progress. The nurse keeps offering me oxycontin when she brings my ibuprofen, I politely decline.

At one point during a shift change the nurse missed an ibuprofen dose. I called her in to let her know it’s been 6 hours, I am hurting bad, and I’m supposed to take the medication every 4 hours. I usually feel the medicine wearing off by 3-3.5 hours. She told me she did not miss a dose and would be back later… I went 8 hours without any sort of pain killer. After she administered the next round, she realized she had made a mistake and did indeed miss a dose. Ouch.

After a few days the nurse came in and told me I could take the tape off my incision. She helped me peel back the adhesive tape, exposing a gnarly looking incision and gruesome bruising. I spray colloidal silver on it several times a day to speed up the healing process and ward off any infection. I place a pad over it to keep the seam of my pants from rubbing up against it. 

I am able to get down to the NICU more to see our little one in her bed a little more. I am able to try breastfeeding each visit, even though she can’t stay awake enough to latch.

After 4 days her name finally comes to us. Rowen Helene Kaufman. It was a toss up between Elowen and Rowen, but a strong soul like her deserved a strong name. We decided spelling her name Rowen vs Rowan was more feminine considering the name itself is traditionally a masculine name. To this day it suits her perfectly. She’s fiery, strong, and resilient just like the Rowan tree.

Isaac and I are sitting with Rowen, he is feeding her my breastmilk through a syringe. She drinks some and small droplets fall from the corners of her mouth down her chin. She’s so beautiful. Watching him feed her is the best thing in the world right now. I hold her close to me and kiss her head. Everything is going to be alright. 

A week later, the day before my birthday, we’re getting ready to go home but some tests need to be run on Rowen first to be sure she’s ready to be on her own. She didn’t need much in the NICU thankfully. The doctors are amazed at how strong and healthy she is. They tried to tell me my dates must have been wrong and that she’s older than we think. Not the case, I said. I know my dates are correct. I declined a few more supplements they want to administer to her before she leaves their care, of course they were disappointed in my decision. I kept my snarky thoughts to myself.

We leave the NICU with more breastmilk than we need, having a decent amount of frozen milk for the freezer stash. I am beyond grateful we are able to breastfeed, that Rowen is so strong and healthy. I know I have a long recovery ahead of me, but knowing that I am able to go home with my family is the only thing that matters. Finally seeing Maisie for more than an hour for the first time in one month was such a relief. 

We did it.

The road to recovery was hard. Being at home after everything that happened with a newborn and a 2.5 year old was hard. The nights were long, I was still in a lot of pain. For while I would still wake up freezing, soaking wet with sweat, convulsing. Getting to a seated position to change my shirt in a regular bed was a challenge. I was accustomed to my hospital bed, which transitioned to a seated position and handles to help pull myself up. I had to wake Isaac up several times to help me, and he did so without hesitation. Time passed and things started getting a bit easier, we started getting into a rhythm of normalcy.

Here I am two years later, finally starting to feel like myself. It sounds like a long time to get over something but the first year was all survival mode. Exercise is getting easier. I was told I could have started doing this 9 weeks postpartum, but I honestly don’t see how my body would have been able to handle that. It’s said that mothers need to heal for one year after having a baby. Why does the Western world push women to “get their bodies back” so quickly? Let your bodies heal, it takes time. I think that’s another reason why I didn’t want to take the stronger pain killers. Pain is a symptom, if you suppress that pain, you’re pushing your body past it’s current capability. In a traumatic situation like this, that could have been detrimental to my body, especially since I had two bad hemorrhages. I was as gentle as I could be with my body after this surgery. As I started feeling stronger, I incorporated harder tasks. Yes, I pushed myself, but at a level my body could handle because I was in tune with the pain, I did not mask it. I stopped taking the Ibuprofen about 2 weeks after the surgery. It took an odd amount of time to get feeling back in certain areas; bladder sensation, touch on my abdomen, etc.

This took place 2 years ago; some memories are a fuzzy and I’m certain I left out a lot. I’m sure Isaac’s side of the story would be interesting to hear at some point as well. Especially when I was missing more than half my blood and apparently made no sense when I opened my mouth to talk. I still don’t know what happened during my time in post op, nor how long I was there.

We are so fortunate that Rowen needed minimal intervention. Some of the babies I saw in the NICU broke my heart; born at 20 weeks, some hooked up to all sorts of medical devices, etc.... These families must have endured so much. A family I’m friends with was dealing with a similar situation down in the Boston area. Talking to them through the ordeal was helpful. So to all my friends and family who helped even in the smallest way, thank you, we appreciate everything you did for us.

Every birth story is different, yet each mother goes through the same transcendence. Bringing a life into this world is a true feat.

Women should be honored and cared for on a much deeper level for the sheer mental and physical strength and endurance the process takes. Instead, by mainstream society we are expected to get back to work just weeks after the hardest day or days of our lives. Our bodies aren’t even healed yet before we’re supposed to “get back to it”. All the while, we are caring for a newborn baby, and for many, other children as well.

Things are changing. There has been a resurgence of midwifery services that honor mothers in traditional ways, giving selfless postpartum care, bringing a village of support together. I had the honor of being cared for by Sacred Transitions Midwifery. The postpartum care was truly amazing; I was given a floral milk bath, brought meals, belly wrapped and a solid network.

As for Rowen, she is the sweetest little firecracker around. She yells at me to snuggle her in the middle of the night after I tell her “milkies are closed”. She hugs piñatas at birthday parties instead of hitting them, and has so much light in her. The amount of love this child has in her is astonishing. Watching our two girls grow up together has been a beautiful journey. There are good days and bad days, but I wouldn’t change anything because where we are right now is wonderful.

To all the women out there, I want to empower you to share your birth stories; the good, the bad, the beautiful, the scary, raw and real. You never know what memories will pop up as you’re writing your story.

— Kim